


Love Hurts

by DarknessBreathing (Breath4Soul)



Series: John is a Tender BAMF [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angry John, Cuddling & Snuggling, Hurt John Watson, It's John's Fault, John Loves Sherlock, John is a Bit Not Good, John is a Mess, Johnlock Fluff, Light BDSM, M/M, Mutually Unrequited, Poor John, Relationship(s), Sherlock Loves John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-11 20:28:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5640889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breath4Soul/pseuds/DarknessBreathing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>When Sherlock tells John he must go back to Mary it's the last straw for the battered and broken man. It all comes out and so do the feelings Sherlock and John have for each other </b><br/>___________________________</p><p>John’s mind races as he tries to comprehend how he came to be straddling Sherlock, his hands pinning Sherlock’s wrists to the bed of their room in a sleepy little inn. </p><p>White hot anger courses through John’s veins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Hurts

John’s mind races as he tries to comprehend how he came to be straddling Sherlock, his hands pinning his friend's wrists to the bed of their room in a sleepy little inn. 

White hot anger courses through John’s veins.

——————-

It had started simple enough. They’d solved the case. A man blackmailing his wife, ending in murder of her lover; at her hands, not his. It was the sort of case that put Sherlock in a bad mood no matter how quick or clever the resolution. 

Sherlock had been uncharacteristically quiet and short with John. The doctor hadn’t minded. The detective's abrasiveness was like a cutting wind when he already thought his skin too numb to feel anymore. It hurt just enough to remind him he still _could be hurt_ and that was _useful._

They returned to the little bedroom that looked like it had been decorated by old ladies; replete with busy and bright flower patterns and far too many doilies. It was all very repugnant in how sharply it contrasted with their dark moods. 

They set about packing their scarce possessions to return home to 221B. 

When they were nearly done Sherlock turned to him and simply said, “You have to return to Mary.”

It had been surprising to John how quickly and completely the rage overtook him.

“What,” he said slowly. His chin tucked, fists clenched, looking up at Sherlock from under his brow. Beneath his skin anger boiled hotter than exploding stars, universes ripped apart in senseless violence, everything beautiful and pure in existence died in merciless flames that were themselves ugly and black.

“You’re to reconcile with your wife, John.” Sherlock’s tone was painfully neutral, his eyes unreadable. The fact that the sentence came as a command was John Watson’s tipping point. He ran at the taller man, knocking him back onto the bed with only a winded huff from Sherlock in response. 

Without much of a struggle (far too little for John’s urgent blood thirst) he is straddling Sherlock, feet hooking around legs to lock him in place and hard grips on his wrists pinning his arms to the bed at shoulder height.

He glares down into those large silver gray eyes with utter hatred. “Shut up. Shut the hell up, Sherlock. Don’t you _ever_ presume to tell me anything to do with that again or-”

“It’s what has to happen, John.” The detective maintains in a flat tone. He looks John straight in the eyes and seems undisturbed by his companion’s turn towards aggression and his current disadvantaged position. 

The ex-soldier grips those thin wrists tighter. He feels bones shifting under his clasp and he knows with a little more pressure he can fracture them, with a sharp twist he can dislocate them, a fast jerk and he can sprain them. 

“I swear to God, Sherlock…” He feels cold all over and is sure his blood has turned to ice. Red is tinging his vision. “You mention that to me again and you won’t walk out of this hotel room,” John growls.

“Two weeks, John. You will return to her in two weeks.”

John’s eyes go wide, then narrow. His face contorts into a semblance of a smile, but it is more of a snarl. His breathing is heavy.

“You said you often mentally practice how you would murder _friends,_ ” The former soldier growls and he spits the word ‘friends’ like a curse. “Well this is my murder _of you_ , Sherlock. _This_ is how I imagine it.”

John releases the detective's left wrist and his hand moves to his throat, his thumb driving into the hollow in the center of the neck with all the efficiency and precision of a doctor. He presses down, closing off Sherlock’s airway. It doesn’t take much pressure from him. _Bodies are incredibly fragile._

Sherlock’s eyes widen momentarily and he takes a thready breath. _His last._ The ex-soldier's thighs clench tighter to hold his captive's body still and he turns his shoulders to deflect the hits he knows will be coming from the man's free hand; the punching, clawing and shoving as the man tries desperately to free himself from John’s fatal hold. 

However, The long, lean body remains still underneath him and the blows never come. Instead, Sherlock’s elegant fingers of his free hand tightly wrap themselves into John’s jumper at his waist and simply hold on.

He looms over his companion, searching his eyes. He wants to see fear, anger or hate. He would settle for alarm or panic. He wants his friend to _feel_ ; to hurt like he is hurting. 

Sherlock’s eyes stare back at him, perfectly calm and serene, pupils wide and taking John in. It infuriates John that his friend is giving him nothing.

“You’re going to die, Sherlock. I’m killing you _right now_ ,” he hisses. He jerks Sherlock’s pinned wrist off the bed and slams it back down again, trying to encourage the man to struggle. 

Sherlock’s eyes remain unchanged, locked on John.

Sherlock gasps for air, lips parting and taking in nothing. His body shivers beneath John and the ex-soldier watches as the consulting detective's eyes dim, like something beautiful and warm is retreating into the dark that lies just behind those slate gray eyes. Sherlock’s mouth turns up in a faint smile as his eyes start to flutter close.

John releases Sherlock, collapsing on to him. His own breaths are heavy and harsh but he can still hear Sherlock greedily drinking in air beside his ear and he can feel that lean chest rising and falling beneath his own. 

“Shit, Sherlock, I was going to kill you. I was going to _kill you_ ,” John says shakily. His voice is muffled. His face is buried in the too plush duvet above Sherlock’s shoulder. 

Sherlock wheezes a few times, then coughs, before his breathing returns to something deeper and more natural. He is still, uncommonly still, as all John’s weight crushes down on him.

The ex-soldier is shaking. He turns his head down slightly so his face is buried in Sherlock’s shoulder. His right arm wraps around John, fingers digging into the doctor's back. His other hand is still twined in John’s jumper at his waist.

“No, John… you were never going to _kill me_.” Sherlock’s voice is deep and certain with the slight edge that indicates that he thinks the very idea is absurd. “At worst you would have waited until I fell into unconsciousness, then your doctoring instincts would have compelled you to resuscitate me.”

“You _can’t_ know that. _I_ don’t know that… you have no idea Sherlock… I _have_ killed men, Sherlock.”

“As have I,” Sherlock rejoins quietly. John stiffens. He’s never seen Sherlock kill a man; throw them out windows, pistol whip them, beat them up, yes, but he’s never seen him take a life - _other than his own._ John knows what having to kill someone has done to his own soul. Somehow the thought of Sherlock having experienced that stings.

“But… I would contend, John… it was always for all the _right reasons_ ,” Sherlock asserts. John never really let himself think about what Sherlock had to do to destroy Moriarty’s network. 

He shivers, suddenly very aware of how Sherlock is fragile in other ways.

“The point remains that I am not _defenseless_ , I could have stopped you, John,” Sherlock insists levelly. “Rest assured, if you kill me it is because I have permitted it to be done.”

John would laugh at the arrogance of this comment if guilt didn’t feel like it was squeezing tighter and tighter around his chest. 

“You were just going to _let me_? Jesus Christ. What the hell are _you_ thinking, Sherlock? I couldn’t stop myself. Why didn’t you stop me?” John’s voice is choked. He feels terrified of the emotions coursing through him and horrified about what he almost did to his friend. 

“But you did stop yourself… and… I decided a long time ago, my life is yours to take, John Watson…” John is silent. He is aware his breathing has changed. He is becoming increasingly aware of the feeling of Sherlock’s body beneath him and the firm grip on his back and the side of his jumper holding him in place. 

“What does that mean?”

Sherlock speaks slowly but with absolute certainty. “You spend a lot of time talking about what you are _not_ , John, but all that matters is what you _are_ … You’re the bravest and kindest and wisest man I know… a man willing to kill for me… willing to die for me. You are perhaps the only person I can be certain well and truly cares for me… If you think I deserve to die and choose to take me out of this world, then it is logical to conclude I am deserving of it… I trust your judgement on matters of morality.”

John feels as if all of the coldness in his blood just suddenly turned to fire. He feels dizzy and is suddenly glad for the fact that Sherlock can’t see his face. 

He knows Sherlock can feel his body though and he has no idea what sort of things it might be saying right now. 

He wouldn’t normally ask the question that floats in his mind now, at least not without a few drinks in his system, but something about how surreal his current position is makes it as if he is not really speaking to Sherlock at all. His words are disconnected, disappearing into the painful brightness of the overstuffed duvet. It somehow feels perfectly safe to ask such a weighty question.

“You love me?” John feels Sherlock shift underneath him. His grip on John’s jumper seems to clench a little tighter.

His voice is surprisingly calm, “This is not new information, John. I admitted as much… in front of several dozen of your family and friends, in fact…” He continues on at a quicker pace and John thinks he hears an undercurrent of uncertainty. “You had, prior to my speech, stated that I was one of the two people you love most in the world and there is ample _evidence_ to support your claim that you _love_ me.”

The room falls silent. John is aware of the volley between their breaths. John is breathing in when Sherlock breathes out. He can feel his companion's heartbeat against his own chest and it is maddeningly fast, though Sherlock gives no other outward signs of just how uncertain he is of the strength of his case or what John’s reaction will be. 

John lets himself feel the anxiety drift away as he relaxes into Sherlock.

“I love you.” It is a statement that is surprisingly easy for John to make. “Yes, of course, I love you, Sherlock. Of course I do.” 

Sherlock lets out a long breath and John feels him relax too.

“I’m not _really_ sure what that _means_ , Sherlock,” John admits.

“Mmm… yes.” Sherlock hums. John has always enjoyed listening to him speak and now he thinks how it is even more captivating when he can feel the words in his own chest and the breath from Sherlock’s lips vibrating against his ears. “It has _many_ meanings and permutations…That will take some working out.”

John feels a need to shift away to relieve the pressure of all these new sensations, but it would mean breaking Sherlock’s desperately tight grip on him. He decides to apply his mind to the problem instead, hoping to block out the physical input.

“Doesn’t mean I’m not… basically… a nutter… PTSD, anger issues, trust issues - take your pick… Caring for you doesn’t mean I _won’t_ kill you, Sherlock… People kill people they love _all the time_ … We’ve seen the cases… In fact I think that _in love_ might be the _most dangerous_ place in the world to be, Sherlock.”

“I have been coming to the _same_ conclusion,” Sherlock sighs.

John turns his head slightly so that his warm breath is on Sherlock’s neck. “I have been reliably informed that I have an _abnormal attraction to danger._ ” Sherlock shudders at the sensation and laughs. 

John decides that feeling his laugh, that chest rumbling against his own, is one of the most pleasant sensations he can remember. He smiles. It has been _painfully_ long since he has smiled.

John’s arms suddenly close around Sherlock and his body presses down harder. “If you love me, how can you tell me to go back to _her_?”

Sherlock resists the urge to shuttered again as all of John is pressing against him and his words are now accompanied by the intoxicating sensation of John’s warm breath on his neck. The stimulus is a bit overwhelming given Sherlock’s usual avoidance of all forms of physical contact. 

“I - It is _necessary_ , John.” Sherlock shakes his head to try to clear the fog. He thinks once again how distracting John’s physicality can be; all very disruptive to his logical systems. 

“She is extremely dangerous and if we ever wish to be safe again you will have trust me and do exactly as I say.”

**Author's Note:**

> _WARNING: Relationship violence. While certainly not ok in reality, I feel it may be the reaction of this particular character pushed to his brink - a traumatized ex-soldier, recovering from PTSD and dealing with his whole life having crumbled, having trust issues and being betrayed by those closest to him._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **By popular demand, I will write a follow up to this - stay tuned. In the meantime, if you like 'Dark John' here is another of my stories with him in this dangerously broken state: http://archiveofourown.org/works/5641363**


End file.
